


In which our battles and blood will not define us

by lemonparapluie



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Lexa (The 100), Protective Clarke, Roan makes a brief apperence, episode:3x04, post-fight comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 23:09:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10729200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonparapluie/pseuds/lemonparapluie
Summary: “I underestimated you today.” It comes out cold and detached and you wonder if she has to make this much effort to isolate any emotion, any weakness, from every word she voices as the Commander. “You’re stronger than I thought.”There’s a few moments of silence and you’ve given up on expecting a reply, when she mummers, quiet and tormented, “I was not strong today Clarke.”ORWhat should have happened after Lexa whips Roan's ice-nation ass.





	In which our battles and blood will not define us

She is strong, steady and controlled in the midst of battle. Her hands do not tremble, her legs do not waver and each swing of her sword is executed with pinpoint accuracy.

Joan is good – incredible even. With his broad shoulders, thick neck and matted beard, he radiates fierce masculinity. You can smell his sweat, even from the edge of the crowd, and you know only a fool wouldn’t consider him a formidable warrior.

But Lexa… Lexa is quick and lean with impeccable precision. You cannot take your eyes of her. She trains her gaze on her opponent, careful and calculating, and you can almost see the clogs turning in her head as she decides her next move. Past there though, she is unreadable. Her face is expressionless and her muscles are frighteningly still; keeping Roan in the dark until the moment she follows through. Each blow is secret and purposeful.

He throws himself at her time and time after again, and there’s an animal fury in his eyes that grows with every lunge. It is a stark yet deadly contrast to her clinical composure. You can feel his anger. Whereas Lexa thrives on the rush of the fight, he is thirsty for blood.

_Her blood._

The realisation makes your skin turn to ice and suddenly you are terrified for her. This battle is taking too long and with each second, his desire to kill increases. She is strong with undeniable stamina, but he is massive and has much larger reserves of energy to expend.

And then all at once, it’s over. She stands over him, a spear aimed at his throat, and he snarls something you can’t make out at her. The spear is driven through the air and you watch anger crack through her cool facade as the blade penetrates the Ice Queen’s heart. The crowd roars and the ground quakes.

* * *

 

Off the battle field, in a medical tent occupying just your and her, she is small, unsure and human. Oh, so painstakingly human; all soft flesh, tender muscle and broken skin. Her hands tremble, her limbs shake and her breaths come out short and ragged.

“You’re shaking.” you point out, softly, hoping to reduce the intensity of her Commander demeaner. Instead, she stubbornly clenches her jaw and you sigh. Half of you wants to throttle her in exasperation. The other part of you, the part that has grown fond of all her little quirks, nearly smiles.

“Let me take a look at that.” You gesture towards her bleeding hand and the _let me look after you_ goes unsaid. When she doesn’t make any move to resist, you grab hold of her wrist and lift it towards the light seeping in through the thin walls. The inky blackness of her blood makes it difficult to assess the wound, however, despite how unnaturally unfamiliar it is, you don’t find yourself recoiling in disgust. It is part of her and any part of her is beautiful; you’ve long given up on trying to deny that.

The cut is deep, ridiculously deep, and you can’t imagine that even the adrenaline of a fight would be enough to push anyone into putting themselves in that much pain.

“You’re gonna need stitches.” You tell her and suddenly it dawns on you: you were expecting this to be the battle that ended her life, and she came through needing just a few stitches. Tears sting behind your eyes and you lower you head, furious that they would threaten to fall without your consent. Furious that she was stupid enough to run into that arena, all heroic and brave and so ready to die for her people. To die for you. Didn’t she know that her death would end you more slowly and painfully than any Ice Nation sentence? You want to scream at her for being and idiot. You want to confess what she means to you. You want to beg her stay alive.

You don’t, though.

“I underestimated you today.” It comes out cold and detached and you wonder if she has to make this much effort to isolate any emotion, any weakness, from every word she voices as the Commander. “You’re stronger than I thought.”

There’s a few moments of silence and you’ve given up on expecting a reply, when she mummers, quiet and tormented, “I was not strong today Clarke.”

Your head snaps up in surprise. She is concentrating on the floor, head dipped and lips slightly parted, looking so so lost.

“You floored a man at least twice you’re size and three times your weight. I don’t know about you, but I consider that an act of considerable strength.” You counter lightly, quirking an eyebrow at her. To your dismay, she doesn’t smile back, and instead her bottom lip begins to quiver and her eyes gloss over.

“Hey,” you say, taking your attention away from her hand and trying to catch her eye. “My people would be dead if it wasn’t what do you did today.”

The words are slow and low, stressing the importance of her victory to the survival of _Skaikru_ – to you. Something in what you said, or something else completely, shatters the veil of tears and her cheeks are already wet as she peers up at you.

Words won’t come quick enough, so you fling your arms around her instead. Her muscles stiffen and as she inhales sharply, you wonder when the last time anyone hugged her was. Her nails grip your back when she finally relaxes. It stings a little but a shuddery breath escapes her lips and the pain becomes insignificant. You press yourself against the warmth of her body as she curls into you and as your ribs collide, she twists. The medical side of you moves to assess the possible new injuries, but as you pull away, her hands slide from your back and lock around your wrists. You gaze at her sun-kissed skin against yours, fully aware that those hands have snapped the bones of her enemies, taken the final breath of her foes. And yet her grasp is so gentle, so delicate; slender fingers just grazing the pulse point of your wrists – a desperate plea for comfort.

“You’re hurt; I need to make sure nothing is broken.” You reassure her, though she has been in this position enough times to know how it goes. She nods, solemnly as ever, but when she swallows thickly, you think maybe she doesn’t trust herself to speak.

“Lift up your shirt.” It’s not quite an order, but it’s firm enough to persuade her to pry the material from under her belt and carry it as high as the top of her navel before her injuries restrict her movement. You quickly interfere, taking the thin fabric from her hold as she winces and bends over slightly to relieve the pressure on her ribs.

Angry bruises blanket her stomach and chest in a sea of deep purple and bloody brown. She steals a glance at the damage when she thinks you’re not looking before hardening her face into a stoic mask. Your other hand raises to feel for internal trauma, but you find yourself hesitating, arm held awkwardly in the air. She is stunning and toned and exposed. The supple muscles of her abdomen ripple under a thin layer of fat and her tawny skin perfectly frames the ridges of her hip bones and the hollows of her ribs. But she is damaged and vulnerable and you can’t afford to think like this right now. So even though your mouth has gone strangely dry and your tongue feels thick and sand-like in the back of your throat, you force yourself to speak.

“You’re an idiot.”

It’s possibly not the most tactful thing you’ve ever come up with, especially considering the intimacy of the embrace you just shared, but it’s the best you’ve got under the circumstances. And in any case, it manages to elect an amused snort from Lexa.

“A minute ago, I was the savior of your people.” She challenges, a smirk playing at her lips. This is good, you think, as you notice your heartrate has settled slightly. You need to keep her talking; need to remind you that she is a person to be tended to and not an artifact of nature to be gaped at. She is not the stony-faced sculpture of perfection she wants everyone to think she is.

“As your new ambassador, should I be worried about the possibility of you publicly kicking my ass anytime soon?” You ask, not entirely serious, as you begin to work, “Tell me when this hurts.” You add, in a more doctorly fashion.

“You needn’t worry Clarke; my ambassadors rarely put themselves in such a position.” Her voice has a teasing lilt to it, but the words that follow are pensive. “The Ice Nation’s refusal to comply has been an ongoing… complication.”

“Uh huh?” you encourage, only half listening, as your fingers glide over her darkened ribs, searching for the tell-tale bumps or knobs of a break.

“They questioned my ability to lead from the day of my ascension.” She continues in the same grave tone. “In some ways, it was beneficial to my leadership; I could not afford to slip with them watching my every move. They kept me… how do you say, on your toes?” She breaks character for a moment and her brows furrow as she searches for the English expression. “But their uncertainty became a problem when they began to create problems that did not exist. The Queen spread conspiracies about how I came to be Commander and many people fell readily into her trap.”

You nod – an act of silent surprise at the length of detail she had begun to describe her past in. You’ve felt the last of her ribs, and though you can feel her tensing in pain beneath your fingertips, there is no detectable break. It’s the next part that worries you though.

“I’m going to have to stitch up your hand now. Nothing’s broken here.” An involuntary cringe tugs the corner of your mouth down as you eye the gaping gash across her palm; this is going to hurt. Your expression must be obvious, because she mirrors it with a knowing grimace. Nevertheless, she thrusts her hand in your direction and sets her jaw in a look of determination.

“I’ll go get some ice.” Anesthesia is hard to come by in grounder villages – Polis being no different – but you doubt numbing it cold will have much effect. Before you can turn to leave though, she puts her uninjured hand on your forearm.

“It’s fine.” _Let’s just get it over with_.

“This is going...” You begin to warn, but she cuts you off straight away.

“To be painful – I know Clarke.” Biting your lip, you regard the look on her face, and reluctantly begin to sterilise the needle. As you move on to swabbing her wound, her face remains impassive, but the tendon on her wrist twitches as she forces her hand to stay still and open.

“Keep talking.” You say softly, and she looks at you curiously. “You were saying what assholes the Ice Nation was.” As you remind her (both intrigued and anxious to distract her from the needle you just stuck into her), you glance up to see the ghost of a smile on her lips. It’s quickly washed away by a pained wince as you thread your second stitch.

“People began to doubt my position as Commander. The Queen believed she would be better fit to rule over, and with time, many others were persuaded.” There is a sharp pause where Lexa clamps her teeth together as the third stitch goes in.

“But they needed evidence; a conspiracy would never be enough proof to get me thrown off the thrown.” This time, the story comes to a halt but Lexa is chewing on her lip for an entirely different reason.

“Costia…” You breathe out, in understanding. She nods curtly and a hiss shoots from between her teeth as you weave the needle in an out. “Almost done.” You reassure and your pleased to see that the blood flow has already slowed. Lexa is silent though, looking over your shoulder at something much further away than the far side of the tent, and it doesn’t sit right with you to end her story like that.

“What happened then?” It’s cautious and sincere, but the way she blinks widely at you makes you feel like you’ve perhaps crossed some invisible line. She continues though, voice drifting airily and a far-away expression across her features.

“After, I think… I think they originally planned to use her as a source of information about me; if anyone could figure out how to take me down, it was her.”

 

Fifth stitch.

 

“I except they soon realised, in hopes of finding any of my weaknesses, they’d taken hostage the greatest of them all. So, they used her as a bargain to force me to resign.”

 

Final stitch.

 

“I refused; they sent me her head shortly after.” Now, her voice is tight; choked with emotion, and as you watch a shaky exhale escape the opening in her lips, you can see the memories coiled in side of her. An infinity of grief compressed into a single point in the Commander; wound tightly, dangerously and buried carefully under the cool sharpness of both her mind and sword. You knot the end and trim the sutures short. The tendons of her neck strain and her chin wobbles.

“She would be proud of you Lexa.” You hate yourself the minute you say it because it’s the most cliché thing possible. Somehow though, in the moment, even though you never knew Costia, you truly believe those words. “You avenged her today Lexa. You brought her justice.”

“I didn’t do it for her.” She whispers it like a confession, hushed and hoarse. Unspoken words drift across the space between and for a minute, you’re dumbstruck.

_I did it for you._

She holds your gaze like a lifeline, and a you stare back, you’re met with two vast forests of uncertainty. Emotion bubbles in your chest, filling your throat and twisting all the words you want to say into winding knots, because she’s so young and so afraid.

Her eyes widen, searching yours for something and it’s only as she tucks her bottom lip between her teeth do you realise that the silence has stretched for an unusual length of time. Her breath hitches and panic is riddled across her brows as you don’t respond, as if she’s in trouble, as if she’s done something completely unspeakable by caring.

So, you kiss her. It’s rushed and your coming from an odd angle after just fastening her palm back together and you pull away far too quickly, accidently catching her, so that when you break apart your faces are no more than an inch apart. Your heartbeat pounds like a war drum and if you were asked to make a decision, differentiating from your head and your heart would have proved an impossible task. This is not war though, and she reminds you of that as she leans towards you, tentatively capturing your lips again.

Because it doesn’t matter how strong or steady or small or unsure she is. All that is important is how her legs are tangled between yours, her fingers grazing the skin above your waist, and the whisper of her breath against your cheek.

In your arms, she is Lexa and she is yours.


End file.
